


Times kept close

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [66]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, M/M, Scars, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25078996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: *in which I edit in an important few sentences, due to being forgetful, a fool, and writing this late at night when I should be asleep.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [66]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

The nights have gotten quieter.

The campfire just outside had died out long earlier, and the autumn chill of late fall couldn't quite make it through the winter tested tent walls, layered now with thicker stretches of animal hide and the opening fringed with the bristly exterior of beast furs. The inside was not much different, with its thick stuffed blankets and the far softer furs used in cushioning the space, besides for the wooden chests in one far corner, just small enough to be out of the way.

It was quiet, the air was a comfortable warmth, and Maxwell found himself staring at his partners back.

Wilson slept on, of course. Gearing up for coming winter meant exhausting days that grew shorter and shorter as time ticked on, and each wave of hounds, each overpopulated spider nest, each intruding giant and its ilk ensured to keep the fatigue coming. The others of the camp went about their business in much the same stride, an overlarge campsite that gave itself away as target but at this point the former Nightmare King had the experience to know hard winters were best survived in groups.

Even he felt the tiring dredges wearing on him; having to help do the more exhaustive labors drained him far faster than he'd ever admit, but he could only complain for so long. These larger camps meant holding his tongue at times, or someone was likely to snap back.

Still, even aching as he was, the vague stuttered numbing that came along with overuse of fuel and the half phantom soreness that came with directing the clones into chopping trees, of all things to waste his time on, Maxwell has found it to be ever harder to get to sleep. It alluded him more often in these bustling camps, the knowledge of all the others crowded about him in their own tents, yet he knew very well that surviving on his own on the cusp of winter was not viable.

It could be done, but it was never quite worth the freedom he thought himself to be craving. Vast amounts of solitude did...did some awful things to him, and the snows of winter would make it far worse.

For now, however, Maxwell laid there in the smelly nest of fur blankets and crookedly made quilts, his joints aching and the world only just slightly buzzing the more he stayed still, and watched his partner as he slept.

Wilson had shrugged off his shirt and vest this time around, and had been particularly tired out from today. While Maxwell had been spending quiet, exhaustive company felling trees with the lumberjack and his ever chatty axe, the other man had apparently been out rerouting a giant's path.

Wolfgang had been the one to break that news, tromping back to camp with Wigfrids ghastly spirit and Wilson limping along in step. While the Bearger had been all set early in the fall, awake from its hibernation but distracted by the withering tadpole filled frog ponds far east, the hunting group had a chance encounter with one of the calves of a far deadlier giant.

Wigfrid had tried to kill it, of course, and underestimated what a much smaller, much more clear eyed opponent could do, so in the end Wilson had been the one to lead it to the ponds, into the view of one hungry fishing Bearger.

Maxwell did not doubt that it must have been quite the unnecessary and thoroughly traumatizing event; Deerclops calves had a full set of lungs on them, not quite as gurgled rough as the adults, and their screaming could be remarkably human in nature. Getting eaten alive by an unsympathetic opposing seasonal giant would not have been a quiet affair.

Still, with Wolfgang only bearing faint scratches and Wilson admitting that he had only tripped up a bit, not a scratch on him and Wigfrid already in the process of revival as Wickerbottom went about to find the syringes, Wes going out of his way to set up one of the thicker meaty stews in advance, the whole situation was not as bad as it could have turned out to be.

Idly watching as the other man breathed, back rising and falling in a calm, unbroken wave of slow movement, Maxwell let his own stuttered rattling breath escape him. His fingertips were getting some feeling back now, which he vaguely recognized as a good sign.

He needn't have summoned so many for chopping wood, but he had thought to get the job done faster, get it over with quicker so that he may go back to his own personal activities. He had been working on updating all their maps recently, placing the lunar islands out on the edges that have been left blank for so long, and having the shadows do his chore without wasting a moment had seemed like a good idea at the time. Ironic, that Woodie had given him a bit of a warning, asking him if it was really all that necessary, but Maxwell had dismissed him as the clones peeled and pulled and slithered Their way from his shadow, tugging the faint bits and pieces still left of himself out with Them.

It got the work done, and that was all that mattered. Having to forgo dinner as the nausea set in, even with the shadows long gone, was just a fair consequence he had to live with for the convenience.

Taking in a slightly rattled breath of air, feeling that static buzz uncomfortably atop his skin at the barest hints of movement, Maxwell closed his eyes and made the decision to scoot closer to the other man.

The warmth radiating off his bare back was soft, quite tempting really, and Wilson slept peacefully on. The usual set scowl on his face must be eased up by now, softer on a sleeping face, though Maxwell could not see from his angle.

What he could see, in the faintest of shadowy impressions, were the old scars and wounds that littered his partners back.

The injuries kept the longer they evaded death, and it was still unusual to see them in crowded clusters, even as experienced in survival as everyone was. He supposed that, perhaps, Wilson was one of the few exceptions when it came right down to it.

His eyes squinted as best as he could through the darkness, those varying grey markings that night obscured from him, and only just recently could he recall a time where he saw them in the full daylight. 

Sometime during the summer, in the ever continual heat waves and the blistering sun and the burnout of short nights. His memory could be spotty at times, but he remembered accompanying the man to one of the nearby ponds, following the dried up riverbed to the frogless, ever sinking waters, packs of dirtied, mostly bloodsoaked clothing in tow. Maxwell did not find this chore particularly pleasant, but at some point Wilson had slipped off that floral flimsy excuse of summer wear and went about cleaning everything with no top on whatsoever.

A bit distracting, especially then, and the man had snapped at him a few times when his focus drifted and he found himself staring for a little too long.

It was hard not to, truly. The casting of scars and marks showed just how much the other man has lived through, and how much more he'd survive in the future. If it made Maxwell a bit hot under the collar, it had been easy to blame the summer heat instead. Wilson hadn't seemed to notice anyhow.

Now, without the blinding hot sun and only the colder chill starting to slip through, or perhaps the numbness of the shadows was finally fading and now the shivers and trembling that usually wracked through him after fuel use were starting to arrive, he couldn't see much but the grey dips of darkness and the slow inhale, exhale of his partner sleeping.

A few minutes more, feeling the chill drag itself deep to his bones and then shiver its way up through his joints, heart pounding with a bit more effort as the numbness sank and left him to the actual full force of aches and pains, before Maxwell whistled a rattling sigh and scooted a bit closer still, finally reaching out.

His ungloved hands met with warm skin, gritting his jaw to keep from flinching back to the sudden static shock of contact, and for a minute he laid his hands still, palms flat and fingers spread, pressed to the curvature of spine and thick set sides, a warming heat thrumming from the inside. His next exhale escaped him in a long pull, a far deeper sigh as his eyes fluttered half closed, and even like this, with the barest of contact, it oftentimes felt near overwhelming. 

Feeling his partner breath under his hands, his frail touch, the movement pressure of each inhale, exhale, deep with sleep and calm, it was enough to start the process of shearing the leftover shadows away from himself. They nestled deep, after all, and if he wasn't careful They'd gnaw Their way far deeper inside and he'd not get Them out until his next death.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he'd not wish to wake the other man, not now, Maxwell let his hands drift across the warmth in front of him, mapping his partners skin in patterns he's grown so very familiar with by now. 

Here, to the side and just under the slow inhale, exhale spread of the ribs, a roughness attesting to a run in with swamp mired tentacles. His fingers, numbness mostly faded and now pressed delicate yet firm, passed over the healing scar, gap that had once been torn out and had left the man in a terrible state for a few days, Maxwell remembered that time, Wilson didn't take to bedrest under normal circumstances and, according to the scientist, a tentacle spike lodged in the side was "normal".

Only the lightest rugged lines were found down his lower back, once gashes that bled profusely from the force of a hounds kicking, tumbling wither of a tackle, paws that had hooked and dragged and tore through with painful intent. Briefly he let his hands set to hips, the bones not near as protruding as they oftentimes got during harsh winters, and he brushed his thumb to the soft, so far unmarked skin, a shuttered exhale escaping him before he once more rose his hands back, upwards to the rest that was exposed before him.

His fingertips traveled to the healing divots of canine teeth upon Wilsons left shoulder, the tough scabbing rubbing to his static laden fingertips, and then inadvertently slid a bit more off track, to almost fondly turn his hand and brush his knuckles to the back of his partners neck, under locks of dark, thick hair.

From there, the faintest heat, of setting bruises; an argument turned bad a couple of days ago, one caused by hiring both pigman and rabbitman in the same vicinity. Wilson had barely escaped out of there before things had gotten too hairy, yet in the end collecting pigskin and rabbit fluffs seemed to ensure it was a worthwhile endeavour.

At least to him, anyhow. Maxwell had not been thoroughly pleased, finding the other man in a bruised up, limping mess of a state, no matter how happy he seemed at the full pack he had dragged back to camp.

His wandering hands trailed lower, the notches of spine and the warm solidity of the muscle and flesh that backed it up, the faint cuts and bumps and bruises that were slowly healing away, back into unmarked skin, but the scars from the far more dangerous injuries would take much longer to heal.

Very carefully, slow and idle, Maxwell drifted one hand back up to shoulder, then past those bite marks and down the warm arm, the slightest raise, bump of long ago broken and healed bone, the light scabbing to the elbow caused more by clumsiness than anything else, and briefly he let his fingertips brush over the darkened, clammy chill skin that was far from human at this point.

The nightmare fuel, when used generously, caused him to reflect near the same traits. Even now, still weathering the improper overuse of the stuff, if there had been light Maxwell would have seen the black grey overshadow of his own veins, that soured and spread like misty curling smoke tattoos. It had only been a few hours ago when the shadows had been scrawled all up his arms, phasing lighter to his shoulders and dipping pale to his neck, but now, without that focus, it had drifted back to something almost human looking, if perhaps a bit pale and corpse like as well.

Not that it made any difference to Wilson, of course. Briefly Maxwell brushed his own darkened, near talon like fingers to the bone claws that his partner lived with, dipping with only the gentlest of pressure as to brush his fingertips to the one scar he knew far too well and has taken far too much time to try to forget. It still lay there, almost as if to mock him at times, this thin slice of raised scar tissue in one sliced line, that point to connect blood in unknowing sacrifice, and he briefly laid his hands still, for only a moment, to touch upon it with a reverence he knew he was undeserved for.

Then he pulled his hand away, turning his attention elsewhere. The man was usually a light sleeper, and he didn't want to push it right now, nor touch upon such memories when the warmth before him was being so comforting.

Near the lower part of his spine, misaligned to the left a bit, a large pale scar spread out in the rugged assumption of a circle. That had happened in the early days of sea sailing, Maxwell knew, and he lightly brushed his palm to the long healed injury, his fingertips light and careful as they trailed the dark hint of an outline.

The newly named Gnarwails reacted quite viciously when under assault, and he still remembered having to hurriedly fish the other man out of the sea as the android went about finishing off the creature. He supposed it was luck, that the horn hadn't cracked off while still impaling Wilson, and the Life Amulet they had on hand did its job well. Left the messy scar, of course, but no other dramas came up from it.

Wx78 did take the horn for themself, but at that point, covered in his partners blood and watching the steady beat of the Life Amulet, still holding the pressure to the goring wound with the bandaging they had brought with them, Maxwell had not cared in the slightest.

Up above that, scattered in patterned spiral lines that he could not see in the dark, pale and yet raised ever so slightly atop the skin, Maxwell let his hands run gently over the Lichtenberg figures that spread atop the other man's shoulders and neck. Most were healed away now, faded lines dissipating into a markless expanse, but a few others were darker scars, from the far stronger strikes Wilson has had to live through in this lifetime.

Spring may be one of the other man's favorite times, the overabundance of food and farming and the electricity he gathered through the rods to help fuel his ever increasingly complex inventions, but it was the storms and rainfall that plagued Wilson during those months. More so, the lightening strikes.

Maxwell couldn't count how many times he's stood there, out in the pouring rain, and bore witness to the unnatural phenomenon that was lightning striking at the heels of a running man. Or how many times he's had to gather the man up and shelter under trees, hope he'd awaken before a strike set the tree on fire.

She avoided hitting him, every single time. It got close, enough to smell the ozone and burning spiral charring to the grass that spread under his feet, but the Queen avoided striking him with purpose. 

A torture of its own, he supposed. As former King, he had started the game, and now he was the one to stand back at the overflowing electricity and not know what to do when Wilson would scream.

He wished he did, and Maxwell let his fingers trail the edges of those darker scars, the ones that didn't quite heal fully, or even right. Autumn had its own storms, and he was not looking forward to them.

Underneath his mapping hands, warm and further to the middle of the spine, the edging of rough scars and pale marks near fully healed, his fingers spread and the warmth seeping to his bones, this simple act, an almost ritual of his personal own, of sorts of course, Maxwell could feel the faintest of heartbeats, passing through the flesh and bone of a stout, scar torn back and into his palms, to hum warmly to his bones.

It was flagging willpower and stillness that finally had Maxwell give up the pretense and instead press himself close, far closer, enough to have his forehead tilt and touch the back of his partners neck, long locks of greasy dark, soft hair brushing against his face, long nose just brushing the warm skin that slept so close by him. A great shuddering sigh escaped him, along with the slimy pull of exhaled shadow influence, and the sudden exhaustion that broke apart the flagging leftover numbness had him close his eyes, weakly curve his arms about the other man's sides and snuggle closer. 

The scars about the sides, the drag of tentacle spines and hungry hound teeth, the blunt rip tear of tallbird beaks and spurs, and then his hands cupped gently around, to chest and gut and body, and even without his sight Maxwell could feel every bump, every ridge or scab, light wounds to the messy scars that littered his sleeping partner's body, and it made him press the slightest bit closer together.

This close, and he could feel the steady inhale, exhale against him, the warmth of contact pressure against his still clothed chest, suit and shirt wrinkled and worn near beyond his own recognition at this point and yet he still was all too stubborn in not taking it off.

Only Wilson could get him out of it, and that was still too rare of an occurrence. How many times has he starkly refused others help, only to immediately flag defeat the instant Wilson realized where the blood on the ground was coming from?

Still, letting the warmth wash through him, his every rattling breath and the steady rise and fall of the body pressed against him, the far warming faint sounds of each inhale and exhale, it made the shadows beholding Their mind numbing promises and coos draw farther back away, enough to leave him be. He'd not be summoning again anytime soon, that was for sure, but it was near alarmingly nice, to feel Them strip Themselves away and allow him this minor comfort.

Wilson slept on, and Maxwell held himself close, the exhaustion leaving him weak and ever so tired, and he'd not sleep, not even like this, but it was a rest he always greatly appreciated, every single time he got the chance for it.

He liked to think he'd not give it up for the world, but Maxwell knew himself better. If the warmth of his partner asked of him to leave, then he'd do so just as gladly as he has always done in answering such a request. He's always been allowed to return, here, close and holding far closer, the feeling of battle scars and the act of harsh living, survival, and he knew if he was out on his own the single goal of just living, day by day, would never truly be enough for him. 

There was more to this than just surviving, and, right now, Maxwell drowsily felt that he had that answer wrapped up close with him, accepting him, and that was enough, more than enough, for this life of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *in which I edit in an important few sentences, due to being forgetful, a fool, and writing this late at night when I should be asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Something woke Wilson up, but he didn't know what.

Slowly squinting his eyes up, towards the tents ceiling, the darkness complete and unblemished, it at least attested to the fact that it was still deep night. No firelight shadows from a cared for firepit, and no grey light from dawn and a rising sun. 

Even inside the tent, layered over and well prepared for the snows, there was a certain level of chill to the air. Vaguely, in the back of his sleepy mind, Wilson hoped the ice hadn't risen enough to block the entrance again. Waking to a morning of shoveling snow out of camp was not a good way to start one's day.

As he laid there, sleep still clinging to him and causing his blinks to slow, tempted to just let it go, he's had a long, cold day and tomorrow will be just as long, just as cold, it took a bit before he realized he wasn't the only one awake.

A few seconds passed, as he slowly angled his head and squinted through the darkness, but there was a shape far darker than the tents night and after a moment Wilson carefully swept his hand out to the blankets beside him, dull claws spread in a hesitant search. The blankets were still warm, which meant it hadn't been long, and with that he slowly pushed himself up, let the furs fall to his lap as he tiredly realized what had happened.

Maxwell didn't look at him, sitting there quietly, his low rattling breathes not quite too steady and just enough fast paced to give Wilson an idea of the situation and after a moment where he rubbed at his eyes and bit back a yawn Wilson spoke up.

"Had a nightmare, Max?" 

Sleep still held fast to him, slurred his voice a bit and dragged at his eyelids, trying to get him to fall back and rest, but even with another yawn nipping the back of his throat Wilson had his fatigued focus pinned to the shadow bathed back he faced, the slightest hint of the dark silhouette hunching shoulders, curling ever so slightly forward.

" 'is alright if you did-"

"It was just a dream."

The other man's voice cut him off, interrupting with a dull, firm tone, but then the yawn got through his efforts and Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, snapping back as the exhaustion continued its flooding through him. He gave a brief shake of his head, blinking tiredly as he felt his balance wobble a moment, but then Wilson got himself back together as well as he could be at the moment and scooted a bit closer, adjusting the fur blankets as he bumped shoulders and then hip with the other man.

If Maxwell gave the slightest of flinches, a near movement as to pull away, Wilson was far too tired out to notice.

"Well, then you should go back to bed." Another yawn tried to creep up on him, a clue as to just how tired out he was, this dragging fatigue trying to pull him under for just a few more scant hours, but he wasn't going to just leave this as it was. It was obvious that, nightmare or dream or not, it had been enough to disrupt the quiet night and he knew neither of them needed that right now. "Long day tomorrow."

"Yes…" Said in a quiet exhaled answer, and Wilson closed his eyes for a wobbling, dizzily sleepy moment before leaning himself to the side, against his partners stiff shoulder and arm. There was a pause at that, halted breathe, but he was too tired to care. "I...I suppose lots to look forward to?"

There was a quiet caution there, but whatever nuance or subtly that could have been there passed right over Wilsons sleepy head and he just nodded against the arm he was leaned to, before turning his face in a slight comforting act to the smell of the old worn suit, wilderness and bone deep exhaustion and that ever present hint of spiced oils. His hand reached out, a blind half hearted search as his claws bumped to his partners side and arm, before he got coordinated enough to trail his hand down the sleeves. 

Well worn out, the slightest knick and pocket marking of holes needing service, but then there was the warm heat of skin contact, the kind his claws could not feel but his palms could, and Wilson latched onto that thought process as he sagged against the other man with a heaved sigh.

The briefest ridging of scars, the ones he's grown more and more familiar with now that he knew they were there, hidden away under the gloves, but even sleep addled Wilson remembered his partners distaste for lingering and instead swept his hand to the ungloved ones of the others, moving a bit as to press palm to palm and close together. It took a moment, as he drowsily let his eyelids close, taking a steady breath and letting it flood the cold winter chill out of him with the warmth of contact, but then those cold fingers reacted and Maxwell curled his hand together with his.

A rattling sigh, heaved out low and quiet, tired even. Wilson drowsily squeezed the hand in his, the odd mixture of cold fingertips to the near feverish heat that came from the rest of the man, and he vaguely recalled the shadow clones summoned that past evening, the rather sudden ambush of hunting walrus that had invaded the camp causing such a massive stir that, even after the unprepared attackers had been killed or driven off, the heightened nerves had set everyone well past the edge of common sense. 

While thankfully everyone had snapped to their senses the instant Willow had attempted to set the chests on fire with that manic, amnesiac look in her eyes, Bernie fetched and food cooked and certain items of clothing exchanged, the shadow clones had been a much harder thing for Wilson to dismiss. The older mans paranoia had heightened after the ambush, and in the end it had been a collective effort with Woodie and Wes's help, but even with the shadows long gone Wilson could still feel their sticky influence clinging tight to Maxwell's aura.

He had hoped that sleep would have helped the both of them, especially after the whole fiasco had dimmed down and dinner had been relatively companionable, but it looks as if he hadn't taken dreaming into account.

A loose variable, one he had no control over, and Wilson let his weight lean more heavier, solid, against his partner, a makeshift anchor. Tired as he was, he knew the difference between dreams and nightmares when it came to Maxwell, and it would be better if he made sure his presence was known.

Wilson didn't particularly like to wake to cold tents all by himself, and Maxwell was more likely to forgo sleep if he was having a bad night.

The hand in his, after a long, quiet moment that let him drift in near half sleep, weakly squeezed his own, an acknowledgment. A small, tired out smile pulled at his face, and Wilson quietly let out his own silent sigh of half realized relief.

"You going to lay down again?" Silence answered him, quiet as he squinted open his eyes a moment, to the dark and thwarted chill and the warmth of the both of them pressed together. "It gets a bit cold, without you."

A bit more blunt and to the point, but Wilson was tired and the warmth of his hand being held so assuredly was making him flag now. Any sort of nuance or innuendo was to be left for when he was more awake, more aware, and right now he sort of just wanted to curl up with his partner and fall fast asleep.

The silence held true for a bit longer, enough to let that faint worm of worry grace him in his tired, phased out state, but then the other man moved, his dull, quiet voice going even more so now.

"Do you wish me to?"

There was more there, more thought process, probably spurred on by whatever "dream" Maxwell had been having before waking, but it sailed its way far past Wilsons sleepy head and he tightened his hold, turned his face to mumble his answer against the worn suit and warm shoulder he was leaned against.

"Would like that, yeah."

Another moment of silence, as Wilson heaved a sigh and warmed up the fabric he had his face nuzzled to, and he vaguely recognized that a cold thumb was rubbing against his claws in soft, slow movements, faint touches of almost affection that he'd not realize fully until long later, when he'd recall this memory on some far off date.

"I...I would like to stay like this, I think."

Quiet, hesitant, and threaded with the hints of that "dream", more probable nightmare if Wilson had been more awake to think through it, but it didn't connect in Wilsons sleepy head and mind, and even sitting up this way his tiredness was merciless, pulling at his eyelids and flashing darkness to the back of his blurry eyes. 

"Yes." Maxwell said quietly, a whispering sigh escaping him, and Wilson felt him tighten his hold to his claws, squeeze a bit more force, holding true to the anchor. "...like this, Wilson, please."

Sluggishly Wilson nodded against the shoulder he leaned against, breathing in that familiar scent and letting his face rest against bony warmth. He was too tired to argue, and honestly this wasn't as bad as it could be.

It never really was, his thoughts vaguely brought to mind, and Wilson hummed a little acknowledgement as his full answer, squeezed the hand in his briefly before exhaling slowly, finally giving in and letting himself drift.

Dozing, slowly drifting the slope down into full, deep sleep, he didn't even feel the faintest touch, a hand brushing his cheek and hair from his face, and nor did he see the little smile that had bloomed upon his partners face, one that the memories of dreams and nightmares slowly stole away only a few quiet moments later. 

Maxwell heaved a stuttered sigh, squeezed the clawed hand clutched with his own, and let his partner sleep against him. The least he could do, for having woken him up in the first place, and even if he'd never say it out loud it was something he greatly appreciated.

Wilson murmured something in his sleep, quiet as his claws twitched and then clasped close to his fingers once more, and Maxwell looked upon him and felt something he's long decided to not name.

...No matter what, he'd cherish it, and maybe...maybe he'll tell Wilson of it, someday.


End file.
